


Sherlock

by Wind_Ryder



Series: Brother Mine [6]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Bonding, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 10:20:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1424887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William Sherlock Scott Holmes needs to make a decision about how he wants to live, and what type of life he's going to pursue. With that choice, he decides on a new name. From now on, he'll only be known as "Sherlock." </p><p>His parents agree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part of the "Brother Mine" Series, as such it is important to read prior chapters in order to understand everything that happens here. 
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful Beta Reader: Chanel. 
> 
> This is the final segment to the first arc of the series. The second arc will begin soon. 
> 
> Thank you very much for reading!

The squad car pulled up in front of the Holmes Residence a little after sunset. Margaret Louise Holmes had just stepped outside to check on her plants when it came around the bend. She frowned at it, not expecting visitors and watched it come to a halt just before her front steps. Two officers stepped out, and the first one approached her while the second moved to the backseat. Her eyes tracked the second even as the first started talking.

 

“Mrs. Holmes…there’s been an incident.” The officer began. She watched the second man open the door and lean in – speaking softly to whomever was in the back. “Thomas Kent is dead.” The news was distracting enough to revert her attention to the man nearest her.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“He died three days ago. Mycroft elected to remain behind and continue his work, but he instructed us to bring William-” Margaret wasn’t listening any longer. She was off the porch and rushing towards the car. A small boy with dark curly hair had just emerged, Irish Setter at his side. He’d been beaten. His arm was broken and was in a cast strapped to his chest.

 

She called his name, falling to her knees at his feet. Her hands ghosted up towards his body, his face, she didn’t know whether to touch his battered features or to stay away. She longed to hold him to her, but with how they separated…

 

She needn’t have worried. Her youngest son leaned forwards and pressed his head to her shoulder. She held him to her, and while he didn’t cry or say anything at all, she could feel the pain echoing from his body. His dog whined at his side and she looked down to see him. His eyes were bottomless pools of uncertainty. He could see his master’s agony, but had no idea how to fix him.

 

The officers retrieved William’s things from the boot. Margaret carefully began to guide her son inside. “Arthur! Arthur!” She called out for her husband to come immediately, and he came around the bend just as she closed the door to the retreating officers. William was still at her side, not moving one way or the other. He was so quiet, Margaret wasn’t sure what to do or what to say. She looked towards her kitchen, but there was nothing prepared, and she didn’t know if he would eat it anyway.

 

It had been so long since she’d seen him. She didn’t know anything at all about the specifics of his life. She knew he’d been well taken care of and that he had a pet, but other than that there was nothing. What were his favorite foods now? What recipes did he enjoy? What were his new hobbies? Did he still like pirates? He liked them before…maybe she should see if there were any pirate toys still lying around the house. Did he still play with toys?

 

“Will? Would you like anything to drink? Are you hungry?” She asked anyway, nervous and unsettled. She didn’t know what she was meant to say or do, she was hovering on the edge of a chasm – worried she’d fall.

 

She’d made so many errors in the past. Back then he’d left and she’d lost both her sons. Now, now he was here and she was determined not to mess this up. She was determined to do everything right. She had to.

 

Except Will wasn’t talking back. He didn’t respond or react to anything. He hadn’t even acknowledged his father. He just stood there for several long minutes, until her rushed questions had faded into silence and all that could be heard was a clock in the other room. Then, William walked slowly past them all and up the stairs to his old bedroom.

 

They followed nervously, watching him as he pressed open the door to the room.

 

Nothing had changed. Not a photo moved, not a book touched. The beds were still made with the same sheets that had been there one year ago. There wasn’t any dust. Everything had been aired out frequently and washed obsessively. He stood in the doorway and looked at his bed, then his brother’s, and he took it all in.

 

“We-we didn’t know if-when you’d be back. So we…” Margaret trailed off, uncomfortable and unsure. His dog whined at his feet and pressed up into his slack hand. William ignored it. He dragged his feet forwards and he stood before the still open window that had been their method of escape.

 

His lips trembled and his fingers shook. He reached out with his good hand and he pressed down on the pane, but it had jammed into place long ago. “We-we didn’t know if you’d use it to come back-”

 

“People don’t enter through windows.” William whispered, voice scratchy and raw. Margaret started at the sound and floundered for an appropriate response. William kept shoving at the pane, trying to force it closed. It refused to budge. He tried harder and harder, but without his second hand he didn’t have the leverage for it. Margaret was just about to warn him not to hurt himself, when her husband stepped forwards and gently placed his hands on the pane.

 

They shut it together, sliding it into place with a snick. William stared at it, hand falling back to his side now that it was without purpose. He diverted his gaze to his bed. “I’m tired.” He murmured.

 

“Oh! All right, why don’t we get you something to sleep in? Do you want new sheets?”

 

“These are fine.” He shook his head and toed off his shoes. He sat down on the mattress, and his dog immediately pushed against his hand once more. This time he let his fingers slide through the dog’s wiry hair.

 

“Would you like us to stay?” Her husband asked, kneeling before William to look him in the eye.

 

“Doesn’t matter.” William told him.

 

“I’d like to stay, if that’s all right with you. I’ll be right over there,” he pointed towards Mycroft’s bed. “If you need anything, you just let me know.” William didn’t reply, just turned over and lay down. He pulled the blankets up over his shoulders, and his dog hopped up on the bed and sat protectively at his side.

 

Margaret watched her husband turn and look at her, his expression concerned and implicative. He settled his back against Mycroft’s bed and sat sentry to their youngest, and she turned to go downstairs. She had questions, and she was going to get her answers.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Mycroft Holmes was a very difficult person to get a hold of. He was _always_ busy. Margaret didn’t care what he was busy with, however, she had enough clout left to cut through the line of underling bullshit and force him on the phone. If he wanted to play at being a Big Boy, then he would have to deal with her one way or another.

 

He sounded older, and far more exhausted than she imagined he would. She wondered if he’d been injured in whatever catastrophe had landed William back in their care, but knew better than to question his ability to take care of himself. Mycroft was many things, and proud only covered a small part of his magnificent presence. He wouldn’t speak with her unless it was worded appropriately, but she felt no need to dance around the bush on this.

 

“What happened to him?” She asked, jumping straight to the point with no pleasantries. Mycroft paused, initially, collecting his thoughts. Then he responded.

 

“Kent took him to the ballet, their return journey was accosted. William, Kent, and his body guard were kidnapped. From what I gather, his body guard was shot, and he was beaten in an attempt to coerce Kent into revealing certain information.”

 

“And did they succeed?”

 

“Kent took a suicide pill and died three minutes before help could arrive. No sensitive data was lost.”

 

“I see.”

 

“He spent two days in hospital recovering, and I sent him home to you as soon as he was released.” Mycroft went on.

 

“Yes, I can quite see that.” She snapped back. She imagined her son to be startled by her ferocity. Generally speaking, unless they were arguing with one another she never took this tone with him.

 

But she knew as she had been tossed from one representative to another, that she was no longer entitled to speak with her son as if he were _her son_. Mycroft Holmes was an entity that was quickly shaping itself in the government. He was a ghost that would disappear very shortly. When he did, he was expected to act and behave in a certain way. He’d already started to go down that path. She knew the road he was on and had chosen to leave it far behind her. There had been other people more important to her than the world.

 

She’d never regretted that decision, and she never would.

 

“If that’s all…” Mycroft sounded strained, and Margaret felt a faint feeling of pity for her son. He was in for a difficult transition and an impossible ride. He wouldn’t like the road he was on. Some days would be perfectly acceptable, but most others would burn like acid.

 

“Did you speak with him? Before you sent him off?”

 

“I informed him he was leaving.” Mycroft told her.

 

Translation: He had been informed that personal attachments were no longer permitted because _look at all the trouble he caused_.

 

Translation: William, after being kidnapped, after watching a man he trusted be murdered, after being tortured, and after seeing a man he cared for commit suicide, had been rescued and immediately abandoned by the only person in his circle he trusted implicitly.

 

Translation: Mycroft felt guiltier than she even imagined.

 

She could only help one of them. The other was much too far away now.

 

“What’s the dog’s name?” She asked, and she must have startled him again because he let out a strange sound from the back of his throat before replying.

 

“Red Beard.”

 

“Of course it is.” She laughed. She could imagine a happier child, running around with his puppy and thinking of adventures on the high seas. Shaking the image from her mind, she was suddenly serious: “Remember this, Mycroft,” she told him firmly. “Sometimes your mentors are _wrong_.” She didn’t bother to say goodbye to him. It would be pointless anyway. She hung up the phone with a click and rested her hands against the counter. Taking a deep breath in she tried to focus her thoughts.

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Healing took time.

 

Physically, William’s injuries faded within six weeks. His cast was removed from his arm, and he was allowed to move about unattended. Margaret had hoped that her son would immediately rush to the trees he had played with when he was younger and scare her by trying to climb one with his still weak arm.

 

He didn’t. He walked outside and pressed a palm to the tree closest to the house. He looked up at its boughs, and he left it alone. He pushed his hands in his pockets, leaned his head forwards in quiet misery. He never left the line of sight from the house. He eyed the road with suspicion and didn’t try to move down it. The fields that were in the back of their property were largely unused.

 

He made it as far as the porch, most days, and he sat on the top step with his hands running through Red Beard’s fur, and he barely spoke. He joined Margaret in the kitchen and he made food for the whole family. He curled his body around itself whenever he sat, not bothering to sit properly or maintain good posture.

 

He didn’t read.

 

He didn’t Research.

 

He didn’t study.

 

He sat still and motionless and he aimed his thoughts inwards and outwards, but refused to expand his horizon past what he could see. He dreamed about the past. He dreamed about blood and death and pain and horror. He woke up screaming, Red Beard barking in alarm, tangled in the sheets.

 

Sometimes it helped that they were there for him. Sometimes when he woke up from a nightmare, seeing that there was another person beside him helped. He’d calm faster, he’d attempt to go back to sleep, and he’d feel more centered. Other times, he just wanted to be alone. He’d look up and turn his back, refusing to meet their eyes or answer their comforting words.

 

They stayed with him, always within hearing distance for as long as he wanted and beyond. If they returned to their rooms, they left both doors open to better hear each other. Sometimes Margaret would lay awake and listen to William walk to their door. He’d never say anything, but he’d watch them breathe for a little while before returning to his room and trying to sleep once more.

 

The worst times were the moments when he cried for his brother. He’d thrash in his bed, scream for Mycroft to come for him, and when he woke up alone he’d sob into his pillow. Those times, it didn’t matter which parent was there, so long as one of them offered their support. He’d press against them and cling on tight, refusing to back away or let go for anything.

 

Margaret wondered if it was appropriate to think about therapy again. Considering how poorly it worked last time, she doubted that was a viable option. Her husband agreed. Instead, they worked around what they already knew. William was hurting, he was lonely, and he was brilliant. His great mind kept spinning around with thoughts that were too big for him to understand or fully work out. He remembered every detail of his life, and he could see it all in Technicolor vision. He was haunted by the past. He needed an outlet.

 

They started in the kitchen. Margaret sat her son down with a notebook and told him she wanted to learn about his style of cooking, since it differed from her own. William didn’t say much to begin with. He wrote down most everything he knew, and he mumbled through the rest. So Margaret asked him how certain foods interacted with others and why they came out with the flavors they did.

 

She made it an experiment. For a full week they spent every hour of the day trying different products together and finding the best way they interacted. Fruits and vegetables lined the countertop as they catalogued the flavor, time of season, and age of the produce. She was most pleased when her husband joined them. He didn’t have the analytical brain that she and their sons professed, but he enjoyed watching them and was always a willing test subject.

 

By the end of the week they had gone through far too much money and had wasted far too much food, but all of that meant nothing when William had smiled at the end of it. It was short and fleeting, but he’d flashed them a small little grin that was quickly hidden away once more.

 

Margaret expanded the field of study. They started their own garden together. They interacted with different markets around town. They went for road trips in order to locate the freshest and most satisfactory foods that were freshly grown.

 

Margaret had initially been leery of putting William back in a car, but out of everything that had happened that night – the accident seemed to be the least of William’s concerns. He didn’t portray any negative feelings towards cars in general, and if anything was only more careful to use a buckle if it was provided.

 

When they returned from one road trip, they arrived to discover that Arthur had purchased nearly two dozen books filled with recipes and food discussions, and alongside those were two battered texts on chemistry. Margaret had frowned at the last two, and Arthur had shrugged sheepishly. “They’re from my early school boy days. I found them in the attic. I thought that since cooking and chemistry have a lot in common-”

 

“What do they have in common?” William asked as he looked past the cook books and ran his fingers over the aged papers. There were pen marks in the margins and equations written on the sides. Haphazard notes were tucked into corners alongside questions about the work itself.

 

“Well…there’s a lot of stirring, and mixing, and measuring of things.” Her husband floundered awkwardly.

 

Margaret wasn’t sure it was as easy as all of that, but William was engrossed. He sat in the middle of the floor, not even bothering to move to a chair or couch, and read. He flipped from page to page, and didn’t so much as move to fetch a snack. Arthur sat with him, tinkering with a model train that he’d started to work on, and Margaret ran through some calculations for a theorem she was dabbling with.

 

When dinner time came along, William brought his chemistry book with him as he prepared some food for everyone. He barely looked up from the pages, moving mostly on autopilot. More than once Margaret had to tell him to pay attention to where he was cutting or snatch a knife from his hand when it looked like he was about to commence chopping without all eyes on deck.

 

He finished both books by the end of the next day, and Arthur walked him and Red Beard down to the local store to buy some updated copies. Within the month, William had marched his way through several thick text books and was requesting samples of chemicals to practice with and science sets to work around.

 

Margaret knew better than to buy the standard children’s equipment that most parents bought and went straight to the source. She contacted old friends from University and found the names of their suppliers. Then, together, she and William began to create a laboratory in the sun room. As a joke, she even purchased a pair of oversized goggles to fit around Red Beard’s face while he sat watching William work.

 

His delight at all things chemical only grew. His excitement became infectious. It seeped over into other aspects of his life, and his smiles came more easily, his words came more often. He engaged in proper conversation, and he finally started to move out of his shell. He explained what he was working on to his father, who never grew tired of listening to him talk.

 

They listened to everything he had to say, because there were moments where he stopped talking about chemicals and food, science and meals. Sometimes he stopped talking about the millions of meaningless things that surrounded him, but never really _sustained_ him. Sometimes, just for a moment, he’d bring up the past, and they could finally start working at the heart of the matter.

 

In those rare moments of honesty, William would talk about Uncle Rudy and how he dressed. He’d talk about Alice’s prompt, but caring, nature. He’d talk about walks in London and playing pirates on the stairs. And once: he spoke about the night of the ballet.

 

It had been late, and William had been mostly going through the motions with his chemistry set. He’d been thinking so hard that he’d accidentally burned his hand, and Arthur turned off the heat to his Bunsen and brought him to the sink to ease the pain under the faucet. “I miss Captain Thomas.” William whispered, barely audible over the sound of running water. He didn’t look up at his parents as he spoke. Margaret stood nearby, obviously worried but not daring to speak up now that William had brought up the name of his dear friend. “And Greg…I miss Greg too.”

 

“I’m sorry, son.” Arthur told him, honest and good. He didn’t try to hide the facts, nor alter them in anyway.

 

“Greg was going to be my Boatswain, ‘cause Red Beard was already my First Mate and Mycroft didn’t want to sail with me.” It was the first time William had mentioned anything revolving pirates since he’d come home. Margaret bit her lip to keep from saying anything that could distract her son. William finally kept talking. “He was going to call me Sherlock, ‘cause it’s a misnomer and pirates always have pseudonyms. He said he’d stay with me forever, and we’d go on adventures together.” William’s eyes were still locked on the faucet, but now they were starting to fill with tears, and Margaret wondered what memory was playing through his mind. She hoped it was a good one, and not of Greg’s final moments. “‘Cept he’s dead now, and Mycroft never wanted to be with me to begin with, and I’m never going to be a pirate.”

 

“Will?” Arthur reached out and guided his son’s body so it was turned to face him. “Do you know how you got your name?” William shrugged, keeping his eyes downcast and away from his father.

 

“Your mother and I always wanted to name you ‘William,’ but we gave your brothers the chance to come up with your middle names. Sherrinford chose ‘Scott.’ Mycroft chose ‘Sherlock,’ because your hair was so yellow when you were born. You were our fair-haired boy, our angel, we would let get away with anything. You’ve been a little pirate since the moment you came into this world, and you stole our hearts and never gave them back. I never met Greg, but if I had, I would have been proud to have known him. He saved your life, he kept you safe, and if you want to go by ‘Sherlock’ now instead of ‘William’, in order to preserve his memory and keep your promise to be a pirate alive, then I will gladly never call you that again. You are _very_ wanted. Your brother chose that name because he knew you’d be the one that stole us entirely. He was right, and I never want to see you doubt who you are. Greg wanted to be a pirate with you, to keep you safe- and he did what any Boatswain would do for his Captain. He kept you safe. Now _live_ as a pirate would, and don’t you ever doubt yourself again.”

 

William finally lifted his eyes up to his father and wrapped his arms around his neck. Father and son held each other tight, and Margaret rubbed tears from her eyes as she looked at the pair. She programmed this moment into her memories.

 

The healing process still had a long way to go, but it had started, and it had started strong.

 

As William nodded against his father’s throat, she felt like a dark chapter in their lives had closed.

 

‘William’ was no more. ‘Sherlock’ was here to stay.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr: http://falcon-fox-and-coyote.tumblr.com


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